


The Comte D'Anjou, or, It's All Gone Pear-Shaped

by Fox



Category: A Knight's Tale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-25
Updated: 2004-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox/pseuds/Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge is a dish best served cold.  (Assuming it should be served at all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comte D'Anjou, or, It's All Gone Pear-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

> I am not now, nor have I ever been, Brian Helgeland.
> 
> Written for Mari for Yuletide 2004. Thanks to Merry Contrary for beta.

Adhemar poured another glass of wine and gave up trying not to scowl. It wouldn't do for the prince to see him not enjoying himself (this being, after all, a banquet celebrating the end of the prince's tournament); but the prince's attention was elsewhere, so Adhemar felt free to not enjoy himself one bit.

Oh, the food and wine were excellent and abundant, as usual. Such banquets were always lavish. But Adhemar hated having to mix with the other entrants when he'd beaten them all -- that he was now required to do so as a mere finalist, not the champion, was utter indignity. The disgrace was only compounded by the fact that the winner was that rough-hewn sycophant William Thatcher, now _Sir_ William if you please, formerly known (and he, Adhemar, had _said_ the name and lineage were false, but had anyone listened? and did it matter anymore?) as Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein.

Sir William Thatcher. Ancient royal line, indeed -- he'd been created Sir William because he was the prince's favourite. In fact he appeared to be the prince's _favourite_, if Adhemar wasn't deceived by appearances. Half an hour ago, Thatcher had been off in a corner with the lady Jocelyn (tongues down each other's throats in the great hall, where anyone could see them -- how common), and the prince had been dancing with Lady Joan of Kent (the step Thatcher and Jocelyn had _invented_ at Rouen and called a traditional dance of Gelderland); but now, His Royal Highness and Sir William were sitting side by side at the top table, deep in animated conversation, hands now grasping at gesturing hands, dark and fair heads leaning together, oblivious to the rest of the room.

Adhemar felt his eyes narrow. There was no way he could get back his title as champion of the lists until the next time the prince held a tournament. But that was only half of what Sir Whoever-He-Was had stolen from him; and if Jocelyn, being the other half, didn't know the nature of the friendship between William and the prince (and she'd been innocent, or so she'd said, when he'd met her, though he doubted she was so innocent any longer -- but even so, how could she suspect the nature of relations between men?), there was a chance she'd look favourably on Adhemar if it was revealed.

This would be an excellent plan. He'd keep an eye on the two of them and choose his moment; when they were off somewhere alone together doing -- whatever it was they did when they were alone together, he'd whisper the secret to Jocelyn and lead her to the spot. Or better yet, he would tell her nothing, but contrive to be walking by with her at an inopportune moment, and let her discover the damning evidence on her own. She would be understandably distraught, and would turn to him for comfort (or at least to avert her eyes).

And, frankly, even if she didn't shift her affection to him, he would have the satisfaction of having spoiled something William would have enjoyed. Adhemar planned to relish William's distress. If he played it properly, perhaps William would even entreat him to put things right. He wouldn't, of course, but he'd allow William to beg for a while. Yes -- ultimately, victory would be his one way or another.

Adhemar finished his wine and glanced back up at the top table. The prince and the pauper had risen together and were coming toward him. He smiled again, imagining his eventual success, and bowed when the prince caught his eye.

But they never reached him. When Adhemar looked up, the prince was speaking to Jocelyn and nodding toward the doorway; she grinned and made a curtsey, and he kissed her hand and -- Adhemar could scarcely believe what he was seeing -- slung an arm around William Thatcher's shoulders and strode out of the hall, leaving Jocelyn (as well as Lady Joan of Kent and all the other revelers) behind.

Adhemar could never have anticipated such brazenness. The prince had sneaked out of his own banquet with his catamite -- but he hadn't sneaked at all, as he'd stopped and told the woman he was going and taking her man with him.

It was likely this would require him to alter his plan.

* * *

Adhemar moved stealthily through the stables, but didn't bother trying for silence. He didn't want the prince and Sir William Thatcher to know he was following them, of course; but if he was seen, he could pretend to be checking to make sure the grooms were taking proper care of his horse, and there was no need to sneak about for such a purpose.

Besides, if the sounds he was hearing from around a corner were any indication, his prey -- his _quarry_ \-- were so focused on each other that there was little chance they'd even notice his approach. There were definitely two voices, and the speakers (moaners, really, and good Lord, they were making a row about it) were definitely both men.

If he thought about it, Adhemar could remember a time when he'd been shocked at the idea of what men did with one another when there were no women about (and sometimes even when there were). That had been so long ago, though, and once he'd got over the shock it had made sense to him, in a way. It -- a lot of it, at least -- was just like jousting, really, wasn't it, and jousting was something he understood. (It had been considerably longer, actually, before he'd understood the appeal of women.)

Anyway, it was no longer alarming to him -- more amusing than anything else, in fact, since in just a moment he'd have the prince and Sir William at his mercy. Adhemar curled his lip into his haughtiest sneer and stepped around the corner.

And froze.

He could see them both from where he was standing, but they were (to say the least) utterly unaware of him. They were faced away from him, tunics round their shoulders, leggings round their knees, boots still on; and the one in front had his hands braced against the wall, and the one in back (as what they were doing was not like jousting _at all_) was giving it to him with a steady rhythm; and the one in back had tousled fair hair, and the one in front --

\-- bright ginger.

Not Thatcher and the prince at all, but two of Thatcher's bloody retinue, damn them all, and his plan would have to be rethought _again_. Adhemar stepped back around the corner and leaned against the wall, folding his arms and knitting his brow. He could still hear the two of them going at it, but they were no immediate concern of his.

Where, if not here, had the prince taken William Thatcher? That was the question. If Adhemar was to shame them in any way -- well, they seemed not to have any shame. But if he was to make their lives at all difficult (or really just Thatcher's life), he'd have to know where they were and what precisely they were up to before he could begin.

As if he'd conjured them himself, Thatcher and the prince came in at the far end of a corridor and headed toward him. Not that they knew he was there, although they would know before long; there was no way he could get out of the stable without passing them (unless he went past the rutting pair around the corner). At the moment, though, they were wrapped up in themselves, laughing (especially the prince, laughing almost uncontrollably) at something evidently so hilarious that when they reached the juncture where Adhemar stood, they had to stop and get their bearings -- at which point they realised he was standing right in front of them.

"Adhemar!" the prince cried, clapping him genially on the shoulder.

"Your Highness," Adhemar muttered with a bow -- or at least a nod; the prince had a grip on his shoulder that he could not escape.

"We didn't know you were here, did we, Will? The party's up in the hall, Adhemar -- what are you doing down here?"

Adhemar opened his mouth to answer, and one of the men round the corner gave a particularly enthusiastic groan.

The prince and William Thatcher raised their eyebrows almost simultaneously. "What was that?" the prince asked, as William went around the corner to see.

"It's --" Adhemar began.

But William immediately came back _convulsed_ with silent laughter, and motioned for the prince to follow him. And as the prince still had his arm around Adhemar's shoulders, Adhemar had no choice but to follow. All three stepped around the corner, where William pointed and the prince took care not to laugh out loud; then they hurried away, dragging Adhemar with them, and managed to make it out of the stables before they burst out laughing all over again.

"Christ Jesus, it was Wat and Geoff!"

"Did you hear him say --"

"-- And the sounds they were making! --"

"-- Their faces must have been --"

"-- But if they'd known we were there --"

They laughed until they were gasping for air; Adhemar bowed again and moved to leave them, but the prince, still laughing, caught him by the arm. "You haven't told us what you were doing in the stables, Adhemar?"

"I'd come to make sure the grooms are taking proper care of my horse," Adhemar said.

"You must mean _my_ horse," Thatcher grinned.

The prince, damn him, laughed. "And he must _not_ mean my grooms," he said. "I don't think that's what he's up to, do you, Will?"

"I do have other horses," Adhemar said. He tried to smile -- he was probably somewhat out of favour because of his known hatred of Sir William Thatcher, but there was nothing to be gained by making himself an actual enemy of the prince.

Thatcher laughed easily. "Not a bit," he said. "Obviously tracking someone down, if you ask me." Thatcher narrowed his eyes. "What do you intend now you've caught them, Anjou?"

"I assure you, _Sir_ William, that --"

"I won't permit them to be harmed."

Adhemar raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Harmed?"

"You'll have to control that jealousy and not try to hurt them, or drive them apart, or whatever it is you're thinking."

Drive them _apart_? Thatcher seemed to -- Christ Jesus, he thought Adhemar wanted --

"It's useless, anyhow -- they'd both spit in your face as soon as look at you."

The prince was laughing again. Adhemar drew himself up to his full height and set his shoulders. He'd had a good chance of making Thatcher miserable, but somehow that plan had become a complete wash. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
